The Lottery Winner. Emilie Rose

      She couldn’t see his eyes and felt exposed on so many levels as she stared at her reflection in his mirrored lenses. Dropping her gaze, she found herself entranced by the smooth curves of his pectoral muscles, the light dusting of dark curls. She’d only seen him in polo shirts and khaki pants before now, and she wished she could have kept it that way. He had the body of an athlete, from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist and long legs. Lordy, he’d be a joy to paint.

      No, Jessie! She gulped, trying to dislodge the knot in her throat, and wrapped her arms around her middle.

      He abruptly stepped around her to the easel holding her picture. “Did you paint this?”

      “Um. Yes,” she forced out, feigning calm she didn’t feel.

      She didn’t like him knowing where she lived. How would she get rid of him? “It’s a beautiful day to be on the water, but it’s supposed to storm later. Better get your trip in before it hits.”

      He glanced her way, a crooked smile on his face. Her stomach swooped. “I can spare a few minutes.”

      He was close—too close. And too naked. She could feel the heat emanating from him and smell his suntan lotion. The air turned thick and humid, making it hard to breathe. She shuffled backward, putting space between them, then wished she hadn’t when the distance widened her view, making it impossible to miss that he had those little dents disappearing beneath the front waistband of his trunks. Seeing those hollows up close and in person on someone you knew was a lot different than sketching them from a distance in a nude art class. The inclination to trace them came out of nowhere and was totally foreign. Her stubby nails bit into her palms.

      Aaron had been a dedicated gym rat, but despite the hours he’d put in, her ex-fiancé hadn’t had a body like Logan’s.

      Logan shoved up his glasses once more. “You’re an artist?”

      “Oh. No. I’m an art—” Teacher. She bit her tongue on the word. “Dabbler.”

      “This is really good, Jessie. You must make a lot of money selling your dabbles.”

      She blinked in surprise. “Oh, I don’t sell them. Painting’s...just a hobby.”

      A line creased his forehead, and his narrowed gaze focused on her. He jerked a thumb, indicating the canvas. “Do you have more of these?”

      “Yes. Why?”

      “May I see them?”

      She pressed her bare toes against the warm dock. She didn’t share her art with anyone except her family, and these days she rarely showed them her efforts.

      “Maybe some other time. I need to get dressed for work.”

      “The restaurant doesn’t open until four today. You can spare five minutes. I’ll even help you carry your stuff inside so you can do it in one trip and save time.”

      She didn’t want him in her house. “That’s nice of you, but I don’t think—”

      “If the rest of your work is as good as this I might have a profitable proposition.”

      Intrigued despite her aversion to him, she wrestled with her conscience. In the end, she caved because she didn’t know how to politely refuse. “A quick look.”

      Carefully grabbing the still-wet cormorant and her paint palette, she turned and made her way to the house. He grabbed the easel and followed. Inside, she propped the canvas against the sunroom wall beside the other pieces, set the palette on the newspaper she’d left on the table and automatically reached to remove her sunglasses. Then she remembered her lack of contacts and left her shades in place. She paused to let her eyes adjust, but even then the lenses were too dark to wear inside. As much as she hated leaving Logan unsupervised in her house, she had to get her contact lenses or risk tripping over something. She ran a mental checklist. There shouldn’t be anything left in plain sight that he couldn’t see.

      “Set that over there and have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

      She hustled into her bedroom, shut and locked the door, then entered the bathroom and did the same. That had been too close a call. She whipped off the sunglasses and hat and checked the mirror. Familiar blue eyes stared back at her—not the cobalt blue of Logan’s. She’d inherited her daddy’s pale, silvery-blue irises. She quickly inserted the nonprescription colored contacts, then she shoved the box of dark chocolate-macchiato semipermanent hair coloring beneath the sink. Covering her blond roots would have to wait until Logan was gone. She took a moment to don a cover-up then plopped her hat back on her head and checked her image again. Her brown-eyed disguise was back in place. Even her mother wouldn’t recognize her.

      She went to find then get rid of Logan. He wasn’t in the sunroom. Panic welled within her. Where was he? And what was he doing? She raced into the kitchen. Empty. Through the dining room. No Logan. She found him in the living room. He stood, fist to chin, studying the paintings and drawings she had scattered about.

      He didn’t acknowledge her arrival, and his lack of response kinked nerves in her belly. Sharing her work—her serious work, not the stuff she doodled with her students—was hard. Really hard. The sensation of nakedness returned full force. She scanned her collection.

      “I, um...like to experiment with different mediums. Acrylics, charcoals, watercolors, pastels...”

      “You did all these?” he asked without lifting his gaze from her favorite representation of the deer family.

      She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

      His gaze drilled hers. “Why don’t you sell them?”

      “Who would want them?”

      “Jessie, your execution is excellent, and these have the local flavor that tourists love to take home to remind them of their trip. Would you be willing to sell them?”

      She’d never sold a painting and couldn’t believe anyone would want to pay good money for one. “I guess...I might.”

      “The same paintings have hung in Miri’s restaurant for as long as I can remember. They’re dated and faded. We could swap some of her old art with yours and market these to tourists. I’m sure you’ve seen similar setups in other restaurants with discreet price tags nearby.”

      She struggled for words and found none. As a child she’d dreamed of becoming an artist, but once she’d reached college her father had said, “Choose a steady, reliable career that pays the bills and comes with benefits. Artists starve.” She’d compromised and decided to teach art. Teaching gave her an opportunity to instill her passion for creativity in others. Between the hours she taught and those spent preparing for each class, she’d had little time to pursue many personal projects until she’d been banished to the Keys. Now all she had was time.

      The interest in her work was shocking, but doubly so from Logan Nash. “Why are you being nice when you’ve been nothing but confrontational up until now?”

      “Because fresh art might bring more business to the Widow.”

      “Miri already has more traffic than three waitresses can handle.”

      “The staff shortage is a temporary situation.”

      Fear battled eagerness. “I wouldn’t know how to price them.”

      “I do.”

      His offer sounded too good to be true. “What’s your take?”

      “My take? You mean like a commission? Nothing. And I doubt Miri will want one, either. But none of these are signed. Sign this one.” He pointed to her favorite Key deer picture. “Bring it to work tonight.”

      Her heart beat double time. She bit her lip, dug her toes into the plush rug and searched his face. He looked sincere, and she really wanted to believe his compliments. She was tempted—so very tempted—to test her fledgling artist’s wings.

      What would her